LITMIR.BIZ

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in the bushes.

      ‘No, I really don’t,’ I say.

      ‘You’ve got to stop with the blame game,’ he says.

      ‘Why?’ I say bolshily. ‘What’s it to you?’

      ‘I am trying to explain to you,’ says Malachi patiently. ‘You have unfinished business with Adam and Joe. You need to set things right. And you can start by taking responsibility for what you’ve done.’

      What have I done that’s so bad? I’ve done nothing wrong, or not that I can recall. Malachi is winding me up.

      With a start I find myself back in my house again. But it’s around fourteen years ago, I think. It’s Christmas Day. We’ve had a lovely cosy Christmas Eve sorting three-year-old Joe’s stocking, giggling in hushed whispers while we creep into his room and hang it by his bed and then curling up together with a bottle of wine in front of the fire. It feels perfect, like we’re a proper family at last. Gradually the shock of Joe’s diagnosis has faded and now we’re in coping mode. I’ve decided not to go back to work. Joe needs me too much. And fighting for him takes up all my time. It was a wrench leaving my job as a copywriter for a big advertising firm. I’d worked hard to get where I had, and to be honest I hated being at home at first, but what else could I do?

      The upside though, is that Joe is much calmer now I’m around. He’s still not great about being touched or hugging me, but at least he longer screams when I hold him. And now he’s getting older, I can reason with him more. Things are coming together in a much better way, and I’m thrilled that he was chosen to be a wise man in the nursery nativity. I had a lump in my throat when he lisped ‘Frankincense,’ when asked what he was giving the baby Jesus. Although it’s hard, there are moments like this of pure unadulterated joy, which I treasure.

      Adam has taken a job closer to home, which means he’s around a lot more. It’s less money, but we’re both grateful that he is so close. Joe and I frequently pop into the office to see him and Adam’s colleagues are brilliantly supportive. I feel like Adam and I are a team now. He insists I have a break at the weekend and has started taking Joe to swimming lessons on a Saturday, giving me some precious time to myself. I am lucky to have such a wonderful husband. So many of the women I meet in the Asperger’s support group I go to occasionally have been left to struggle on alone. I know Adam would never do that to me. He adores Joe, and I couldn’t have asked for a better dad for my son. We’re dealing with this, and it will be OK. Finally, after three tough years, I think we’ve turned a corner – so much so, that when Adam brings up the perennial topic of a brother or sister for Joe – something I’ve been resisting because it scares me – I don’t give him an outright no.

      Today, Adam’s parents, Mary and Anthony, and my mum and dad are coming for Christmas lunch. It’s the first time we’ve hosted. We moved into this house when we first got married. It was all we could afford at the time, and desperately run down, but we didn’t care, because we were just so happy to be together planning our future. I fell pregnant with Joe quite soon after we moved in, and although it was an anxious time, it was also thrilling the first moment we heard Joe’s heartbeat, and I started to feel I might get all the way through this pregnancy.

      The house was still in chaos when we brought Joe home, and Adam worked really hard to make it habitable for us. It still needs loads of work; the back door always rattles, and we could do with a new kitchen, but I absolutely love it. Prices round here are so expensive, we can only afford a smallish three-bedroom cottage, but it’s a step up from the flat we lived in before. I feel we’ve finally graduated into the world of adulthood (something my mother has always seemed to feel is lacking in me). This is our family home, where we are making a success of bringing up our son, despite all the difficulties involved, and I’m determined to show our parents how well we’re doing. Today is going to be a wonderful day.

      To begin with everything goes swimmingly. Joe is well behaved and quiet, though I notice him flinching from Mary’s hug. My mum at least has the sense not to touch him unless invited to.

      The turkey, which I’ve been cooking since 6.30 a.m., because our oven is so temperamental, is cooked to perfection. The wine is flowing, the conversation is relaxed, and even the Christmas pudding lights first time. Adam and I have been working together seamlessly to make sure everyone has what they want. I couldn’t have asked for more. I pour myself an extra-large glass of wine after lunch, something I reckon I deserve.

      And then it’s time for presents. We gather round the tree, complete with decorations that Joe has made at nursery, as well as the more traditional sort Adam went out and bought to mark our first Christmas in our new home. The lights are sparkling and bright, and presents are spilling over themselves.

      Joe’s the only grandchild in both our families so I suppose it makes sense that he gets spoiled. But it’s when we start unwrapping presents that all hell breaks loose.

      In their wisdom, and without consulting me, Mary and Anthony have decided that Joe needs one of those sound-light jobbies that helps kids learn their alphabet, as Adam has told them he’s behind on a lot of the skills other kids his age have. For a normal kid, it was probably a great idea. For Joe, it’s a disaster.

      ‘Ah,’ I say, foreseeing trouble, ‘I think I might take that for later.’ (I make a mental note to take it to the charity shop at the first available opportunity.) Joe can be sensitive to noise and light, and coupled with a busy day that has slightly broken his routine, I’m not sure it will go down too well.

      But Mary is too quick for me. She is clearly proud of her gift, and wants to share it.

      ‘Look, Joe,’ she says, ‘look what it does.’

      She starts the machine and it emits light, and beeps and whistles. I can see Joe is getting agitated.

      ‘Wait,’ I say, ‘it’s too much, Joe doesn’t like it.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ says Mary, who always knows best, ‘of course Joe likes it, don’t you, Joe?’

      She’s trying so hard, but she’s got it all wrong.

      Then Joe puts his hands over his ears and lets out a high-pitched scream, before throwing himself on the floor and kicking wildly.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say as I dodge Joe’s flailing limbs to calm him down. ‘He’s sensitive to noise.’

      ‘Sensitive to noise? Never heard such rubbish,’ says Anthony. ‘Nothing wrong with him, he needs a firm hand.’

      ‘No. He doesn’t,’ I say as patiently as I can. ‘Joe’s condition means that he needs the opposite. He needs care and consideration.’

      ‘Well, of course you will insist on spoiling him.’

      I look at both my in-laws with increasing dislike. How dare they judge me, when they couldn’t even cope with their own son? Suddenly I feel deeply resentful of them. Adam and I are doing our best to care for ours. We might not be getting it right, but it’s a damn sight better than the way they have behaved. Joe might be hard work, but we both love him. I cannot imagine how any parent could make the decision to hide their child away the way Mary and Anthony have.

      ‘At least he’s not hidden away, out of sight,’ I burst out. The words are out of my mouth before I’ve registered. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine.

      ‘Livvy!’ says Adam, shocked.

      ‘I beg your pardon.’ Anthony’s face goes purple. ‘How dare you?’

      ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say backtracking wildly, conscious that Adam is looking at me in horror. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I did.’

      ‘You have no idea what we’ve been through,’ Mary has gone pink with anger. ‘You have no right to judge us.’

      But you feel the right to judge me, I think bitterly.

      ‘I’m sure Livvy didn’t intend any upset,’ Dad steps in smoothly, and I feel like hugging him. ‘Did you, Livvy?’

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